My house is wrecked. That’s why I’m at Caribou Coffee, trying to write. Here, I’m not distracted by scattered toys or dirty dishes. I don’t need to push away stacks of I’ll-get-to-it-some-other-time catalogs, coupons and preschool art. At Caribou, there are places for things. There’s space for me, and I don’t feel judged by chaos in the corners. Out of sight, out of mind. For the moment, it’s all light and magic. I can write. That’s also the problem. Because in a few minutes, I have to return to the clutter I’ve left behind. I’m not talking about the kind of clutter some claim when sunlight…
It’s all about the treats. The ones my girl gets at school. The ones teachers use as rewards. The ones parents send to celebrate birthdays. And, of course, the ones parents relegate to allergy-free lists. Before having kids, I was warned about The Treat Conversation. I naively doubted my involvement or opinion. How could Tootsie Rolls, Play-Doh and homemade cupcakes spark confusion and controversy? Yet, the conversation proves as risky as those questioning local politics. Perhaps because there is consequence. In December, a 13-year old Chicago student died from a severe allergic reaction to…
Many here—and in Chicago—are talking about mayor-elect Rahm Emanuel and why he won. Some complain Emanuel bought his message and multitudes of messengers who stole publicity from those who couldn’t afford their own. Others claim there was no message, and in the vacuum of ideas and discussion, partisans crowned their king. A few blame the media for predicting the outcome, making it so. Yet, no one blames the tens of thousands who didn’t vote. It’s easier to voice political opinion online, affirmed by Facebook and Twitter posts, or by the comments section, where the loudest rant often applauds…
At Trader Joe’s, my preschooler loudly declares that the frozen yogurt I’m putting into our cart is a gazillion Weight Watcher’s PointsPlus® value, and that I can’t eat it. At a holiday party, the host confides she does not have “my kind of food,” despite a tray of vegetables in front of me. And then there’s my Italian mom, god love her. She worries I don’t eat enough. The thing about losing weight is that many think they know better, and are happy to suggest ways that you could do it better and faster, whether they understand the process or not. (And hey, I’m guilty of it, too.) The …
Flipping through channels, I'll sometimes stop and watch a rebroadcast of a village council meeting. Yet, I'm often interrupted by a barking dog, a ringing phone or requests for juice. If you watch "Sesame Street," you might admit it lends more entertainment. Besides, I've yet to see Tina Fey or Jay Z make guest appearances during Downers Grove Village Council meetings. So, I'll change the channel. Like most people, I have opinions about politics. I've learned, though, that having one in Downers Grove can be tricky. Some might cast you as an outsider because you haven't lived here five, 10 …
Right now, you may be hearing a Top Ten something complied by an intern at National Public Radio, or watching a "Worst Of" segment just edited by a production assistant at FOXNews. Of course, you may also be reading a "Best Of" list that a first-time freelancer sold to a glossy magazine. Lists. They're everywhere. There's one list, though, that collects quietly throughout the year. For me, it's made up of people who deserve recognition, but don't always get it. While I'm limited by word count here, my gratitude is not. So, here's my list of thanks dedicated to always-great-to-see faces and …
For those with kids, story time at Downers Grove Public Library is a gift. That's why you'll find me in the Junior Room on Mondays, Tuesdays and sometimes Wednesdays. We read. We sing. We play. Often times, I'll chat with adults who, like me, arrive late and uncaffeinated. Small exchanges, between singing "Roll Roll Sugar Babies," and reading "Sally and the Purple Socks" make my day. Sometimes I wonder who enjoys story time most, my child or me? I love our library, and not just because it offers free, quality programming. It houses an immense selection of books, music and film. And I can rely…
When it gets cold, the phone inevitably rings with questions about the holidays. Who's hosting what, and when? How is this year different from the last? And then, after the excitement of making plans, sometimes there's that pause at the end of the conversation. Perhaps you know it. No one wants to send grief an invitation; it just shows up.My friend Jenny tells a story about going to the grocery store, after her dad died. While talking about something like the weather, her mom picked up a bag of sugar and walked to the cart. Only, there was a hole in the bag, and tiny crystals of sugar …
A friend who works with veterans—many just returning home and some only seeking help in their dying days—recently met a soldier's wife who asked him to hide her kids. It took me a second, too. Hide her kids? Her husband, haunted by the deaths of children overseas, sees ghosts. He fears for his family, and he sleeps with a gun under his pillow. She fears for their lives. That same friend, also a veteran, lost his nephew this year to a roadside bomb, in Afghanistan. You may have read the headlines, and not suspect a thing if you talked to him, waiting in line at Caribou to order coffee. He …
Working at a local bookstore, I'm sometimes hesitant to ask opinions about the "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo." I often don't know the response I'm going to get. Yet, I know it's going to be extreme. It's like asking opinions about Barack Obama or Sarah Palin. Rarely is there pause or deliberation. But, there is almost always a quick answer, usually from places of anger or applause. Sometimes the shock of hearing those opinions silences and renders the possibility of any other interpretation impossible. Perhaps that's the point. It seems that way for a lot of conversations these days, …
During a recent vacation, I noticed a wooden sign, edged in painted flowers and nailed to a tree. It simply read: Janice for Council. It looked a bit weathered and loved, and didn't demand attention the way campaign signs at home often do. It wasn't a stars-and-stripes mish-mash of red, white and blue. A billable expert didn't design or produce it. I have no idea if Janice is a Republican, Democrat or Independent. But I do know this: voters know who she is, perhaps because she already benefits their community. That is why Janice doesn't need a last name. Or plastic signs to remind. And that's…
Amnesty Day. When my husband and I moved to Downers Grove, we had no idea. Sure, we had a broken chair and other things that needed homes other than our garage. And if using our tax dollars helped to motivate that move, why not put our damaged worst on the curb, and call it a day? At dusk, makeshift trucks with metal caging and reinforced siding trolled our street. Some stopped to inspect our chair. Others simply slowed in judgment. Things revved and rumbled and crashed. Dogs barked; ours kept vigil. And so did we. When I peeked out the window (yet again) to check our chair, it was gone. …
